Ellen Berry - The Little Bakery on Rosemary Lane - The best feel-good romance to curl up with in 2018

‘Yes, of course.’ She mustered a wide smile.

Serena grinned. ‘Did he enjoy his brandy snaps?’

‘Oh, God – things didn’t exactly go to plan …’

Serena and Kate convulsed with laughter as Roxanne filled them in on last night’s events, and by the time she stepped back into the office, their shared hilarity had dissipated her nerves a little. She slipped her bag over her shoulder – it was weighed down with the scrapbook she had brought in with her – and spotted Marsha in her little glass cube of an office, motioning for her to come in. Roxanne cleared her throat and strode towards her.

Marsha was out of her seat, all bared-teeth smiles whilst dispensing instructions to Jacqui, her PA, to bring them coffee. ‘Sit down, Roxanne. How are you getting on with the yoga?’

‘Oh, er … great!’ She was conscious of her voice shooting up.

Marsha laughed. ‘Before I came here I imagined you lot’d be a right bunch of yoga bunnies. You know, being fashion types, desperate to remain a size eight. But no! Everyone’s really unfit!’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say—’ Roxanne started.

‘Anyway – never mind that.’ Marsha clasped her hands together as if in prayer. ‘So, tell me. How’s it all going with your team?’

‘Great, thanks,’ Roxanne said brightly, perching on the padded seat.

Marsha murmured her thanks as Jacqui glided in with two mugs of coffee. Her desk was completely bare, unlike Roxanne’s, which at present was littered with magazines, books, tissues, packets of mints, a utility bill from home, a gift voucher, a cereal bar wrapper, a bottle of perfume and a tub of nail polish remover pads. ‘Glad to hear that,’ Marsha remarked. ‘Serena and Kate are so keen, aren’t they? That’s great to see …’

‘Oh yes, they’re both amazingly creative and organised. I don’t know what I’d do without—’

‘So, what about you?’ she interrupted again. ‘Tell me all about your vision for the future.’

Roxanne frowned, and her nostrils flickered. Was that the burnt brandy snap smell she could detect? Had she somehow brought it to work with her? Marsha sniffed audibly and twitched her tiny nose.

‘Well, I know we’re in challenging times,’ Roxanne began, ‘and glossy magazines are in decline. But women still enjoy them. They’ve just stopped buying a whole raft of titles and have whittled it down to just one, a firm favourite – the one they feel the most loyal to. I truly believe that, if we make ourselves stand out from the crowd, then that can be us.’

She swallowed hard, trying to drag her thoughts away from incinerated confectionery as she fished out her scrapbook from her bag and placed it on Marsha’s desk.

‘What’s this?’ she asked, crooking a brow.

‘My ideas book. Would you like to see it?’

‘Of course, yes!’

Roxanne felt the blood rushing to the tips of her ears as she flipped it open. Could the smell have clung to her top and/or skirt? Her French wardrobe was antique and the doors didn’t fit too well. Perhaps the smoke had crept in through the gaps? Marsha’s gaze had dropped to the scrapbook which Roxanne had opened randomly to show pages crammed with her own lively pen-and-ink sketches, plus pictures of outfits snipped from magazines.

‘This all looks very … interesting,’ Marsha said unconvincingly.

‘Um, it’s just the way I work,’ Roxanne explained. ‘It’s how I gather my ideas together and plan the next few issues with the team …’ She flipped the page to show more sketches, plus fabric swatches, scraps of denim and printed cotton and lace; the pages were bursting with ideas, annotated with Roxanne’s beautiful looped handwriting. ‘People are always complaining that the clothes featured in glossy magazines are exclusively designer,’ she added, showing Marsha page after page of her chaotic yet beautiful collages. ‘Well, I think it’s important to make our pages inspirational for everyone. We’re not just reproducing top-to-toe designer looks. We’re all about creating beautiful outfits that any woman can afford. Yes, we can use the odd designer piece, but we also bring in quality high-street buys, vintage finds, things we’ve customised ourselves …’

Roxanne paused for breath and glanced across the desk. Marsha’s attention was waning, she could sense it. ‘This all looks great,’ she said briskly. ‘It’s so quaint and childlike – so old-school – to have a funny little scrapbook of ideas …’

A funny little scrapbook ? ‘Well, I do find it helpful to—’

‘And I’m glad to see you’re not fixated on blow-the-budget shoots,’ she interrupted, ‘insisting on flying everyone to Africa and hiring eighteen elephants as props …’

Roxanne smiled tightly. ‘Er, no. We often shoot in London, the home counties or the south coast …’

‘No elephants there,’ Marsha quipped.

‘… Unless you count zoos,’ Roxanne said, ridiculously.

‘Ha, yes, and I don’t think they loan out their animals for fashion shoots, do they? Anyway,’ she added, shutting the scrapbook firmly to indicate that she had seen quite enough, ‘there’s something else I need to discuss with you, while we’re here.’

‘Oh, really?’ Roxanne’s eyebrows shot up. Something solid and heavy seemed to have lodged itself in her gut.

Marsha’s nose twitched again, like a mouse’s. ‘Yes. Don’t look so alarmed. It’s actually all good and I think you’ll find it’ll make your job much, much easier.’ Roxanne shifted uneasily as Marsha picked up her mug and took an audible sip of her coffee. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, everyone’s cost-cutting these days – making redundancies, culling whole departments …’

Oh, good lord. Here it comes – she was about to be given the heave-ho. Her job was about to become ‘much, much easier’ because soon she wouldn’t have one at all.

‘… And you’ll be glad to hear I’m not about to do that. On the contrary, I’m investing in our brand, bringing in extra resources. I know our circulation has only dipped a little, but I’m here to reverse that trend before we find ourselves in real trouble.’

Roxanne nodded. ‘What sort of resources do you have in mind?’

Marsha dispensed a quick, bright smile, the kind a nurse might give before plunging in the needle. ‘Well, this is all terribly exciting and you’re the first to know. I’m bringing in someone new, someone amazingly talented to take a fresh look at the whole magazine …’

‘In which department?’ Roxanne was trying to sound calm, as if Marsha had mooted the possibility of new chairs. She glanced down at her coffee. Jacqui had put milk in it, which Roxanne didn’t take.

‘She’ll be my right-hand woman,’ Marsha explained, ‘helping me to implement all the changes I want to bring about. We’ve worked together before. She’s brilliant, a real firecracker: I know you’ll love her …’

The effort of trying to appear relaxed and non-defensive was making Roxanne feel quite light-headed. She focused hard on Marsha’s mouth as she spoke. Her teeth were small and perfectly even, like a row of tiny chalks. While Roxanne had her own teeth professionally whitened – a faff, but sort of expected in fashion circles – Marsha’s were obviously veneers. ‘Who is it?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice level.

‘Tina Court. Have your paths ever crossed?’

‘Um, yes, briefly, although we haven’t worked together. I’ve seen her at plenty of events, she seems very, er …’ She tailed off. What to say? Tina Court was fashion director on a mammoth-selling weekly and had a reputation for being utterly formidable.

‘She thinks very highly of you,’ Marsha added, widening her eyes alarmingly. ‘She thinks it’s amazing that you still want to create beautiful pictures when really, all anyone wants these days is twenty-five figure-fixing dresses crammed onto the page …’